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.”Marcellus Lynch, annoyed at being ignored and still smarting from his shame at the bridge table, gave a disgusted snort.“Elspeth, when are you going to learn to call a spade a spade? Your folks weren’t servants.They were slaves! Colonel Swan owned your people, same as he owned his mules for plowing and his cows for giving milk.”Ginna felt a twinge of pain for Elspeth when her smile faded, and she ducked her chin to hide the tears gathering in her eyes.Ginna reached across Neal and touched the old woman’s arm.“It’s okay, Elspeth,” she whispered.Sister was not so discreet in her reaction to Lynch’s affront.She glared across the table at the man, her face betraying her rage.“You ungrateful, carpetbagging Yankee!” she seethed.“You’ve got some nerve, putting down Elspeth’s people.Why don’t you tell us about your illustrious ancestors? What were they—rumrunners, moonshiners, or just a bunch of worthless sots like yourself?”Lynch hurrumphed and glanced about nervously to see if anyone at the nearby tables had heard.If they had, they at least had the decency to ignore Sister’s remarks.Gaining comfort from this, he said loudly, “I’ll have you know, Sister Randolph, that I come from a long line of diplomats and statesmen.Why, a great uncle of mine even married into the royal house of Hanover.”“Hanover, my hind foot!” Pansy cried, in such a high-pitched squall that every head in the dining room turned.“Tell me about diplomats and statesmen! The only state your ancestors knew was the state of inebriation.You’d best stop trying to put on airs around here, Marcellus Lynch.We know all about you—where you come from, what you did there, and why your daughter brought you way down here to Swan’s Quarter from New Jersey.”“New Jersey?” The shocked whisper moved through the room like the wave at a baseball game.“If there’s one thing I cannot stand and will not abide, it’s a Yankee trying to pass himself off as a Southerner,” Pansy shrilled.“That’s something no one can fake.It’s either passed down in your genes from your ancestors or it isn’t.And were you a true Southerner, Mr.Marcellus Yankee Lynch, you would have better manners than to speak to a lady the way you just spoke to Elspeth.And now, sir, we are all waiting for your apology.Even you Yankees know how to apologize, don’t you?”Tension crackled not only at their table but all through the dining room.Lynch’s face had gone beet-red, then lost all its color.He looked ashen, ill.The minutes ticked by, silent and charged.Ginna shifted uncomfortably in her chair.Finally, in a bare whisper, Lynch said, “I beg your pardon, Elspeth.Forgive me, please.”He shifted his gaze her way, pleading silently.The old woman refused to look at him.She sat motionless and silent, slumped in her chair.“I really am sorry, Elspeth.I’ll leave right now, if you want me to.” He pushed back his chair as if he meant to get up from the table.“I know how you were all looking forward to this meal with our company.I didn’t mean to spoil it for everybody.But I guess I have.I just don’t fit in here, do I?” He paused and let out a heavy sigh.“I should never have come to Swan’s Quarter.”“Then why did you?” Sister snapped, still unforgiving.Lynch shook his head and stared down at the pink napkin in his lap.“I really don’t know.It was like I was drawn here.My daughter brought home a batch of brochures and said I should look through them and choose where I wanted to go.When I saw the name “Swan’s Quarter,” I knew this was the place.It seemed familiar somehow, as if I’d been here before.” Bravely, he looked up, staring right at Sister.“You’re right, of course.I’d never been out of New Jersey before I came here.I’m not at all what or who I’ve claimed to be.I should have known you’d find me out for a fraud and a liar.The only connection I ever had with any royalty was an old bum who lived in a packing crate behind a store on my mail route.He wore a tin foil crown he’d made and called himself King Ozzie.He claimed his family had once been guests of the crown heads of Europe—diplomats, statesmen, and bon vivants.He told me wonderful stories every time I came by.Since my life’s been so dull, I guess I thought you would like me better if I used those fantastic stories to make myself sound more interesting.Crazy old coots! King Ozzie and me!”“What happened to him?” Elspeth asked gently, her first words since Lynch’s attack.Marcellus looked very sad, suddenly.“I felt sorry for him, used to give him money for a meal now and again.I tried to help him, but I knew all along there was no use.He lived only for his next pint of whiskey.One day I came by and found him all stretched out, his crown on his head, and an empty fifth of rotgut whiskey clutched to his chest.He was dead, but he was smiling, like he’d seen an angel, or something.I saw he got a decent burial.He didn’t have any family—none that claimed him, anyway.I figured it was the least I could do, since he’d entertained me for so long.”Now the silence at the table had a different feel to it.The “terrible threesome” seemed to soften a bit toward Lynch.“Didn’t know a Yankee had it in him to be so sentimental,” Sister said, with no malice in her voice.“I reckon you must have had a Southerner way back in your line somewhere.”A slow smile crept over Lynch’s face.“Could be.They say I had a grandpa who was a riverboat gambler, until he settled down and married a dance hall girl from New Orleans.”Elspeth laughed out loud.“Well, you sure didn’t inherit his card-sense.”Pansy reached over and pressed Lynch’s hand, smiling radi-andy.“You’ve got a big heart, Marcellus
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